Faint
by BWjournal
Summary: Best not avoid.


Neither of them want to be alone tonight.

They've been doing this dance: They go on dates… invitations and plans that come in passing, veiled with humor, as if they weren't gradually allowing themselves the concessions of their subconscious.

They don't decide to "be a couple" - the distinction would imply that there's the possibility of having the option or the choice to want to invite other people into their lives.

They're not "in a relationship" - they've been in one for the past twenty-five years.

They don't define it, even when one night insecurities flourish in her head. It is what's left unsaid. Is the double meaning of a word, of a phrase, of a pun. A night of insecurities and ridiculous scenarios just leads to one certain decision: there will be no more doubts.

There will still be independence, they know better this time. And if that were to change, it will be no big deal. The left side of her closet at her apartment is where half of his suits hang, and they fight over who has more toiletries stored in her vanity. She took over the top drawers of his dresser… and last week, they put together a shelf in his old home office so that she can stack all of the books she devours while they lounge on his couch.

When one decides to spend the night at their own quarters… it doesn't mean anything, but an opportunity to spend some time on their own. Appreciate the loneliness. Let the other breathe some space of mind. Recharge the need, fuel the longing, miss each other for that one night they spend apart.

They are… what they are, and what they've always been.

He'll be crazy, and she'll be there to follow in his madness.

She'll look for answers, cautiously… he'll bolden that search.

He'll be strong for her. She'll allow him to be.

Neither of them will let the other fall down the rabbit hole, at least not alone.

The nights apart become less and less frequent as time goes by.

...They just wade.

As they near the intersection toward her apartment, she squeezes his hand and locks eyes with him. They're red-rimmed and tired just like his. The silent question floats between them; she sighs as she intertwines their fingers.

Tonight is not one of those nights to stand up for their individuality, but to reflect on where they've been together. Or what they've created together.

They don't utter a word as they drive the next thirty minutes to his home, the dull sounds of the rain hitting the road and the mumble of folk songs on the radio lulling their thoughts.

He wonders if they haven't cried enough. He wonders if they should even cry over this.

Their son is alive. Their son is a wonder.

Their son preferred to leave.

Their son is alone out there.

Their son is really nothing of what they imagined he would be.

He's better.

They fell short imagining the intricacies of what would become of his life. There's not a trace of the naive idea of a dreamy childhood. He's real. He's flawed. He's perfect.

Even to the point that in his haste and possible immaturity, he understood what they couldn't understand right away. And he wonders if she has come to this conclusion as well.

There will never be games of catch on a summer afternoon. There won't be discussions of where he'd like to go to college, or if they can afford tuition, or uncomfortable - albeit possibly hilarious - conversations about safe sex.

He's on the run, very much like they've been so many times. Most likely unprepared, most likely overwhelmed, most likely playing it suave and smug… but internally screaming.

As he has done.

As she has done.

When they get to the house, her voice almost sounds foreign after so much time in silence.

"He wouldn't have harmed those girls if we had raised him," she says. "He would have known better."

He takes a deep breath as he sits on the battered couch and nods. Yeah, maybe.

Maybe there wouldn't be a Malcolm X poster stuck on his ceiling. Maybe there would be more than one. Maybe he would have his own UFO poster, like the one that now hangs on the wall nearby. Maybe he would have a messy room instead of a neat one. Maybe he wouldn't have had a gigantic WHO sign, but instead a WHY one.

They've been circling around in the world of those millesimal permutations that could make their existences different, a discussion of parallel universes, and the truth, and alternate realities… and Jackson himself is the embodiment of that very discussion. A bag full of "what if's," of blame itching to find a victim, of impossible answers… a bag that contains everything from fears to anger, but that doesn't contain enough acceptance.

No matter how much they lie to themselves, there's no peace when it comes to these choices. There will always be regret.

She comes to him, tears streaming down her face. She's kicked her shoes off and discarded her jacket and she steps in between his legs as he circles her waist in a loose embrace. Her fingers comb his hair absentmindedly, as he buries his face in the soft warmth of her abdomen. He wants to cry as well, and match the haphazard heartbeat that accompanies her muted sobs.

But he can't. Because uncertainty and sadness have turned into a mixture of hope and anger, and he doesn't know if this is it...

Is this what will make this pantomime of normal life that they've been living in finally come to an end?

He can feel the urge crawling in his skin again. He knows it won't be long until they're back in fight or flight mode. There won't be time for dances soon. Maybe this is what it will take.

He feels the shift as she pushes him back, straddling him and taking his mouth. It's slow but needy, a kiss that's hunting for solace and comfort.

"It would have been different," he says when they break for air, and she nods, almost relieved in his reassurance. For better or worse, it would have.

She buries her face in his neck, each feeling the weight of the day on them.

"What do we do now?" she mumbles against his skin.

"He's decided for us," he says after a while, happy to hear that 'we' in her query. Relieved that she's not retreating as she would have before. "We can only hope that he's curious about us. That he dares to entertain the idea that we can be there for him. That he sees 'you'… "

She straightens up and meets his eyes. Is that even a reasonable hope? Would his fear at some point become powerful enough to seek for them, to reach for the hand that may seem foreign, to trust the pain that Scully confessed to him?

Maybe they're the ones in the wrong… maybe they're the ones that should join him, and not look back. Abandon the disjointed fantasy of diplomacy and backhanded manipulation to find some unattainable truth.

Even if for that brief moment they can relish in the satisfaction of being able to say that they were right.

For all that they care, he's the only truth that was worth seeking. The one that would lead to so many answers they've been craving, and yet - here they are - shying away, once again.

Jackson was right to run away. He was right to ask them to stand up for something.

They've grown soft. They've grown afraid.

There's no William anymore; it would be a disservice even to try to hang on to this old notion. Jackson is the man that their son has become. Jackson is the person that William grew up to be. And while he's out there, trying to reassess his life and re-encounter with himself… perhaps they should be doing the same.

Mulder grabs her hands, gathering them and kissing her knuckles as she watches.

"We can't shy away from making a choice anymore, Scully."

Time is running out for normalcy.

She nods. She knows what he means. He can only hope that the next blow catches them ready.

Because there will be a next one. They can't wade anymore.

Later, their lovemaking feels different and freed from a weight they didn't know they'd been carrying, their connection has a deeper sense of awareness. Others may call it an earth-shattering moment, but for them… it is just the faint shift of purpose. Their lives and their love have been tested in too many battles to get caught up in the enormity of it all.

No more dance.

No more need to be alone.

No more "should have been".

No more judgment.

No more idealism.

No more blame.

He pulls her to him, intertwining their legs, hugging her close, breathing her in as her breaths vibrate against him.

"Okay," she whispers. Okay.


End file.
